


Aftermath

by tinuelena



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:38:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4842689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinuelena/pseuds/tinuelena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The KGB lends one of their best-- an agent called Varlamov-- to U.N.C.L.E. for an important mission, and he gets killed. At a safehouse in Finland, Illya learns the consequences of failure and makes a big decision with Gaby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short prompt fill about the aftermath of one of Illya's episodes.

                A frigid wind whipped the eaves of the tiny cabin on the shores of Lentiira. The location, in northeastern Finland, had been suggested by Waverly; Gaby and Illya were supposed to be in Russia by now, but Waverly thought things were too tense for them to set foot on Soviet soil at the moment. Two weeks ago, a mission in Egypt had gone horribly wrong. The collateral damage: half a city block and three bystanders. Napoleon Solo, last they heard, was still in an Italian hospital. And one KGB agent was in the morgue.

                Anton Varlamov had been the second best under Oleg's command, a twenty-six-year-old tank of a man with a buzz cut and eyes that could make even a hardened military man wither in his boots. But he wasn't all heavy brow and thick muscle; he was also a tactical genius and an expert marksman. With Illya on loan to U.N.C.L.E., Anton had become Oleg's go-to agent.

                Waverly had talked the head of the KGB into letting U.N.C.L.E. borrow Anton when they received intelligence about a militant group who'd stolen a devastating amount of state secrets, including the location of a storehouse of chemical weapons. Waverly realized they'd have to act fast to prevent another world war. He recruited Rosemary Kaluza, a plain-faced American agent who wore a no-nonsense ponytail and a gun strapped to her thigh under her pencil skirt. She was Solo's choice; he had said that if they needed someone other than Illya and Gaby, she was the very best the CIA had. Waverly gave her MI6 agent Ian Hammond as backup. Then he called Oleg. _I've got to have Varlamov,_ he said over the secure line. _He's made for this, Oleg. If they get their hands on these weapons, they'll fire on you before they fire on us._ Reluctantly, Oleg handed him over, warning that he better be taken care of, a sentiment he'd passed on to Illya in a gruff-voiced phone call.

                _With or without Varlamov, you and Teller will report to me at the end of this mission,_ Oleg had said to Illya. _And for your sake, Kuryakin, it better be with._

                Illya, hands jammed in his pockets, remembered the threat as he watched the body bag zip shut over Anton's bloody face.

                The second Illya and Gaby hit the extraction point, he called Waverly to report what had happened.

                _I heard,_ Waverly had said, his tone flat. _I'm sending you to a safehouse in Finland. You'll wait there until I contact the Kremlin. You should hear from me in a day or so._

                The helicopter had dropped them off, they had hauled their bags to the cabin, and they had settled in for the night.

                Illya was fast asleep, his arm wrapped protectively around Gaby, when the phone jolted them both from their slumber. Instantly alert, he went for the receiver, expecting Waverly's voice. "Hello?"

                Instead, he heard another voice-- a familiar one, but one he had not heard in far too long, one weathered by pain and age. "Illya," it croaked, wheezing. "мой сын. My son."

                "Father?"

                Immediately, Gaby got out of bed, her slender frame swallowed by Illya's big, thick sweater. She went to his side, not knowing whether he would welcome her or push her away; when she squeezed his shoulder, he set a heavy hand on hers, a silent thank-you.

                "Illya... help me..."

                His jaw clenched. "What have they done to you?"

                "Ask him to send me back to Siberia, son-- please-- I will go back to gulag, I will work, I will work, please--" He coughed, and over the static, it sounded like he was choking on blood. "Tell them, Illya. Tell--"

                His hand tightened on Gaby's fingers. "I will tell them. Once I get my hands on them--"

                "You'll do what?" Oleg's voice came on the other line. Illya heard a sharp slap, and his father cried out in the background.

                "Let my father go."

                "Your failure has lost me my best agent."

                "Let him go."

                "Quit U.N.C.L.E. and bring your girlfriend to the KGB and I will think about it."

                "Gaby does not belong to me. She is not my property. But I will come back."

                "Not good enough, Kuryakin. You lost me an agent-- at the _least_ , you need to get one to defect and join us."

                "Let him go," Illya warned, "or next time I see you, you will wear your own balls for necklace."

                Oleg chuckled. "Empty threats. How about this. I kill your father now, and find Gabriella Teller myself. She will defect, or she will suffer for her loyalties."

                Illya's throat closed; his fingers tapped against Gaby's wrist. "You will never find her."

                "You know better than that."

                His eyes could have burned through the pine wall. "If you touch her, I will hurt you so badly you will beg for death."

                A scream cut through the conversation: Illya's father.

                "I think your father is almost to that point." Then, muffled: "Nikolai! Вы хотите , чтобы умереть?”

                "Illya," he moaned, his voice raw and pleading.

                A slap. "Your son will do _nothing to help you!"_

                "My son... let me speak to him once more..."

                Oleg's voice was cold. "He has made his choice."

                "I said I would return!" Illya yelled, springing to his feet. "You will have me back! Let him go!"

                "You failed!" Oleg shouted into the receiver in English, so Illya's father couldn't understand. "And failure has consequences!"

                The gunshot was so loud that even Gaby jumped.

                And then, a dial tone.

                He threw the phone against the wall so hard that it left a dent in the pine boards. His eyes met Gaby's for an instant as he paced a meter-long strip of the floor. "Illya..." She reached for his hand, which was shaking.

                "No," he said, throwing open the door, still in nothing but an undershirt and flannel pants. He pushed into a pair of shoes. "Not this time."

                Gaby let him go, watched him plunge into the arms of the forest and tear trees limb from limb, a primal growl echoing through the frosty night. She stood in the threshold, the warm firelight behind her, the snowflakes whipping her in the face. Illya, ever since Rome, had tried hard to quell his fits of anger, though she had seen him become destructive once or twice before. But not like this. Never like this. His dark shape tore through the forest like a grizzly bear; around him rose a whirlwind of snow, sweat, and debris. He uprooted tiny saplings from the frozen earth, sending them crashing into hundred-year-old oaks; he hefted stones and hurled them into the darkness, the earth quaking under their weight. When he had sated his rage, he came trudging back through the snow, chest heaving, fingers ragged with splinters and blood, face red with cold and wet with tears.

                She opened her arms to him, and he sank to his knees in the tiny entryway. As if his brain hadn't registered that it had been cold outside until this moment, he began to shiver violently; Gaby took a fleece blanket from the deacon's bench and pulled it over his shoulders.

                They sat in silence for a moment, Illya's eyes on the handmade rag rug beneath them. "My mother used to make these," he said absently, his bloody fingers pulling at a stray piece of fabric, staining the faded blue. "My father hated them. They were everywhere in our _dacha._ "

                "Do you want some tea?" She rubbed at his red arms. "Something hot? You're freezing."

                Illya shook his head. "No. Stay."

                Stunned, she did. Usually, after an episode, Illya preferred to be alone.

                "He is right," said Illya, after a moment. "I failed him. And Varlamov."

                "It wasn't your fault."

                "Yes."

                "Illya, it wasn't. None of us knew they'd wired the place."

                "I should have been more thorough."

                "Ian is the one who should have been more cautious," Gaby said. "It was his job. You did yours, and because you did, there are thousands of people who will be alive in the morning."

                "Just not Varlamov. Or my father."

                She fell silent. "I'm sorry."

                "I have done nothing but fail him. Now I have caused his death."

                Quietly, she began to stroke his arm, her tiny fingers just lightly brushing his skin. Illya never quite seemed to grasp the fact that he was a skilled spy, an expert soldier, a loyal partner, a loving boyfriend. He was always self-deprecating. In the beginning, Gaby had taken it for humility, but she knew by now that he truly believed that he was a failure in many areas of his life; often, he'd express his shock that she hadn't left him, and she had to reassure him that there was no reason to believe she'd find a better man in any corner of the world. She wished, furiously, that she knew how to convince him of his worth. "You caused nothing," she said firmly, though she knew her argument would likely be futile. "I heard you tell Oleg that you'd come back full-time. You were trying to protect him, but he shot him anyway. No matter what you did, that bastard was going to kill your father. The same way Victoria Vinciguerra was going to kill mine. There are some people who are just evil. It's not your fault, Illya."

                He said nothing.

                Gaby looked across the room at the phone, still lying off the hook in the corner. "He called us here. He knows where we are."

                "Yes."

                "Do we wait here for him, then? Obey his orders to go to Russia following the mission? Or call Waverly and have him get us out of here?"

                He considered this. "This man," he said after a moment, "is my superior. I must answer to him."

                "This man has done nothing but threaten you," Gaby said gently. "If you don't want the KGB, you don't need them."

                "I am Russian. I belong in Russia."

                "I'm German," Gaby said, "and I work for MI6."

                "Not the same."

                "Your father is gone," she said plainly. "Your mom died five years ago. Who will he hold you hostage with now?"

                Oleg's words rang in his head. _She will defect, or she will suffer._ "Gaby, I will not let him touch you."

                "I'm not afraid," Gaby told him. "I can watch out for myself-- and I have plenty of people watching out for me. But think about it. If I wasn't here-- if all the people you loved were gone and there was no one left for him to threaten you with-- would you stay?"

                "Yes," he said immediately. He was Russian, after all, and for the glory of the motherland-- _Why?_ his brain interrupted. _The motherland whose hospitals were so neglected that Mother's cancer wasn't detected until it was almost too late? The motherland that forced Father into stealing government funds to smuggle Mother to the West for medical treatment? The motherland that punished him for it and watched me so closely that I joined the Soviet Army and the KGB out of fear that I would be sent to the gulag?_

                He looked back at Gaby. "No."

                "Loving your country," she said quietly, "is not the same as loving its leaders."

                "Maybe... there will be better Russia someday."

                She reached for his hand, and he relaxed. "What do you want to do?"

                "We should call Waverly. Let him know that... allegiances have changed."

                "This may make things much less complicated for U.N.C.L.E."

                He nodded. "Yes. When Solo wakes up, he will be pleased at my suggestion."

                Gaby raised an eyebrow.

                "I am going to request our next mission."

                "What do you have in mind?"

                He gestured toward the gun lying on the table. Blood dripped from his shredded fingertips. "Take out head of KGB. Start to clean house."

               

               

               

               

               

               

 

               

               


End file.
